


Trick or Treat

by grlnxtdr29



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Major Charactor Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 15:44:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17769614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grlnxtdr29/pseuds/grlnxtdr29
Summary: Kurt Hummel HATES Halloween, for good reason. But he allows Brittany to talk him into going to a Halloween Party with New Directions and The Cheerios. After the jocks play a cruel trick on him, he drives off in tears, and nearly runs over a mysterious boy in the road. Is this another Trick?





	1. Tricks

**Author's Note:**

> You can also read this story in French at https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12701393/1/Trick-or-Treat (Thank you, Rose1404 for translating it!)

Lima, Ohio, Halloween night, 1959

His heart raced as the car speed down the old two lane road, back towards the town limits. He reached up and wiped blood from the gash on his forehead, trying to keep his vision in focus as he raced away from his tormentors. He should have known this had all been a trick when Stacey had asked him to the party. All she had to say was that He would be there, and he'd fallen for the trap.

He'd had a crush on the older boy since the moment he'd laid eyes on him last year. The auburn haired boy had been singing Something's Coming from West Side Story, seemingly uncaring of the dirty looks others were giving him as he cleared the tables at the five&dime off of Main street. The boy had been pretty obvious in his sexuality, and didn't seem to care who noticed, despite the fact that boys like that often fell victim to thugs and bullies.

He thought he had hidden his attraction to the other boy well, but somehow they had found out about it, and had used it to lure him out to the old barn. They had beaten him, and taunted him, saying they were going to hang him from the rafters. He could still hear their jeers roaring in his ears;

"Little fags don't deserve to live!"

"Queers must die!"

"Pervert! Burn in hell!"

He'd somehow manage to get away from them, and had made it to his car, though he couldn't tell you how he had managed it. His mind was a little cloudy. He thought maybe he had a concussion from getting kicked in the head.

He glanced in the rear view mirror, wincing as he saw the headlights behind him growing nearer. He floored the accelerator, willing the car to go faster, even though he knew it wasn't safe on this old road, especially with old Wickeridge Bridge coming up. He could see the rickety old structure ahead. He sent up a prayer that he would make it across before they caught up with him. His house was just half a mile past the bridge. He'd be safe once he made it there.

But it seemed his prayer would go unanswered as he felt something slam into the back of his car. He fought to stay in control, and just managed to remain on the road. He was at the bridge now. The other car pulled up beside him, and he could see the hate filled faces of the other three boys, and knew he wouldn't survive. His only regret was that he had never told the beautiful boy how he felt, had been too afraid and ashamed.

As the other car swerved into him, forcing his car through the weathered old wooden side rail, he screamed out as the car plunged into the rushing current below. "I love you K..."

…

Lima, Ohio, Halloween night, 2002

"Oh my goodness, look at how adorable you are, Kurt!" The woman gushed. The auburn haired little boy laughed and spun around, the fluffy white tail flowing behind him like a ballerina's skirt.

"Meow! I'm a kitty cat!" He pretended to preen and lick one hand to wipe at the white felt ears on top of his head.

The pale woman laughed again. "A pretty white Persian kitty."

"Can we go Trick or Treating now, Mommy?"

"Not yet, honey. Wait until Daddy gets home from the garage, and then we'll go. It won't be much longer." Elizabeth said, and then had to cover a coughing fit. She'd felt a cold coming on since the day before yesterday, and now it was the full blown thing, with painful chest congestion.

Young Kurt looked at her curiously. "Are you okay, Mommy? You sound like you are sick, and you look like you are hurting. Do you want a hug to make you feel better?"

She smiled at him sweetly. "A hug sounds heavenly right now."

He returned her smile with one of his own angelic grins, and hugged her tightly. "There, is that better?"

"Yes! So much better!" She kissed him on the tip of his kitty cat nose. Just then they heard the sound of the garage door opening.

Kurt squealed. "Daddy's home!"

He ran to the door, ready to pounce on his dad the moment the door opened. Burt Hummel was ready for him, catching him up in his arms and swinging him around. "Hello, kiddo! Have you been a good little boy today?"

"I'm not a boy, I'm a Kitty cat! Meow!" And he licked his dad's cheek.

Burt laughed. "Well, so you are! Did you catch any mice today?"

"Eww! Gross! Of course not!" Kurt squirmed, and Burt set him down as Elizabeth moved to her husband's side and kissed him.

"Someone is eager to go out and collect some candy. I told him he had to wait for you."

"Can we go now, Please, Daddy? Please please please?"

Burt laughed. "Let me change my clothes and we'll go. Five minutes, okay, bud?"

"Okay, Daddy. Mommy and I will be waiting to go!"

Elizabeth began coughing again, and actually winced in pain, and had to sit down. "I'm sorry, Kurt, but I think it's just going to be you and Daddy tonight. I'll stay here and pass out candy to the little ghouls and ghosties that stop by, okay?"

Kurt frowned, noticing how pale and fragile his mother looked. "Okay, Mommy. Maybe when Daddy and I get home you'll feel better and we can sing the thirteen ghosts of Halloween song."

She smiled down at him, and kissed his forehead. "I'd love to, baby."

A few minutes later, Burt came back downstairs, and scooped Kurt up in his arms. "Ready to go, Kitty Kurt?"

"Yes! Bye, Mommy! I Love you!"

"I love you, too, Kurt! Have fun! Bring home lots of Candy!"

She waved them off at the door.

When they returned a little over an hour later, with a pillow case full of candy, the house was deathly silent. His Dad told him to sit down on the couch and watch a movie while he went to check on his Mom. Kurt had just turned on It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, and was sorting through his goodies, when he heard his dad cry out. And then there was the sound of rushing footsteps, as his dad grabbed up the phone, dialing three numbers.

Little Kurt, still dressed in his white kitty costume, listened as his dad spoke anxiously to somebody. He didn't understand everything his father was saying, but he knew he was talking about his mother, and knew it was bad.

When he heard sirens a few minutes later, he understood just how bad. His dad held him tight, rocking him as paramedics swarmed up the stairs to his parent's room. Someone was asking his dad questions, but Kurt wasn't paying attention. All he could think was that he wanted to go to his Mommy and give her a hug and make her feel better.

He had no idea how much time passed. He remembered seeing them carrying his mother down the stairs on a stretcher, and putting her in the ambulance. He remembered his dad strapping him into his seat in the car, and fumbling with the seat belt. And then they sat in the waiting room for what seemed like forever to the young boy.

A kind looking nurse smiled at him, and told him how cute he looked in his costume, and offered him a sucker, which he took, but didn't eat. He couldn't even muster up a smile for her. He was so tired, but was afraid to fall asleep. And then a doctor was there, talking to his dad, using words Kurt didn't understand, like viral pneumonia and collapsed lung.

The next thing he knew, his dad was setting him down in a chair outside a door, and telling him to sit there and wait for him like a good little kitty. Kurt nodded solemnly, and watched his dad disappear through the door beside him. He could hear strange sounds coming from the room behind him. There was an awful beeping noise that hurt his ears, and a rasping sound that reminded him of that evil guy from the space movie his dad had watched the week before.

He could hear his dad talking, but couldn't make out his words over the other noises. He didn't understand why he didn't hear his mother talking back to his dad. Why didn't she answer him?

He began to doze off there in the chair, had just settled his head on the arm rest when a high pitched wail sounded, jolting him awake. He heard his dad crying out his mother's name, and several people rushed into the room behind him, all calling out and making a lot of noise, and little Kurt was terrified. He wanted to go home, to lay down in his own bed, or maybe in Mommy and Daddy's bed with both of them, snuggled together. He hated it here in this noisy, nasty smelling place.

…

Lima, Ohio, Friday, October 29th, 2010

Kurt hated Halloween and everything to do with it. The holiday dredged up too many awful memories for him. So why had he let himself be talked into going to some Halloween party outside of the town limits that would be attended mostly by the jocks who constantly tormented him? Because Brittany had begged him to come. All of the Cheerios would be there as well, of course, and all of New Directions.

He had refused to wear a costume, though. Not that it seemed to matter, as most of the girls in attendance just wore their uniforms, and the jocks wore their lettermen jackets. How original.

The party was held in an old barn that had been strewn with orange and black streamers and hanging bats and spiders, the ubiquitous Halloween décor. Kurt nearly gagged at the lack of imagination. At least the music was good, he thought, as Katy Perry's Teenage Dream played in the background, although he preferred Lady Gaga.

Kurt had been here for about an hour, and had so far managed to avoid any altercations with the jocks, although Karofsky had sent him a few menacing glares. For the most part, they were all too busy getting drunk to pay him any attention. That was fine by Kurt, who wasn't drinking. He'd learned his lesson on that with April Rhodes and her liquid courage.

He had settled in with Mercedes, Tina, Mike, Brittany, and Santana, all sitting together in one corner where someone had spread blankets over old hay bales to form impromptu couches. They had been chatting about music, and Glee, and various other nonsense for some time, and he had actually been having fun.

"So, have you all heard the stories about this barn?" Santana asked.

"What stories?" Tina asked.

"They say a boy tried to hang himself here, and when that didn't work, he drove himself off old Wickeridge Bridge and drowned. No one knows why he did it. They say his ghost still wanders the road between here and the old bridge."

Mercedes rolled her eyes. "Please. The only spirits around here are of the Liquor variety."

The Latina just shrugged. "My Abuela told me about it. She said she knew the boy, went to school with him. She thinks he did it because he was gay and couldn't deal with it."

Kurt felt a shiver go down his back, but ignored it. He didn't believe in ghosts, and while the thought of suicide had fluttered briefly through his mind last year when the bullying had been particularly bad, he knew he would never have gone through with it. He couldn't do that to his dad.

He stood and excused himself, stating that he'd promised his dad he'd be home early. His friends tried to convince him to stay a little longer, but he was starting to feel uneasy in this place, especially when he saw Karofsky giving him an evil look. He said his goodbyes, and was making his way towards the exit, when something wet and ice cold came pouring down over him.

He stood there in stunned silence for a moment, as the jocks began to laugh uproariously. Kurt couldn't speak as he looked down at the red fluid running down his shirt. In the back of his mind he knew it was a giant slushie that had been dumped on him from a bucket, but in his mind's eye it looked like blood, the chunks of ice making it seem even more sinister.

"Oh my god, Kurt!" He heard Mercedes shout as she rushed to his side. He could hear Santana and Mike shouting at the jocks, but was too numb with shock to understand what they were saying. He thought he heard Puck and Sam's voices join in the shouting as well, but it really didn't register.

"Kurt, are you okay?" Brittany's soft whisper sounded beside him, and it was the catalyst that had him racing out the door.

Tears were flowing down his face, and he fumbled with the keys to the Navigator, dropping them twice as he tried to insert them in the ignition. He drove blindly down the old two lane road, going faster than he normally would have, not caring that it was unsafe with the blind curves at this time of night.

Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Why did they hate him so much? What had he ever done to them to deserve this constant torment?

He reached up to wipe away the red liquid that was still flowing down his face from his hair, impairing his vision. He was approaching the curve that lead past where the old road crossed over the old wooden bridge, but the new pavement swerved right towards the new, steel and concrete monstrosity.

He screamed and slammed on the brakes, turning the steering wheel to the right when he saw the figure in the middle of the road. The large vehicle jolted to a stop, and for a moment, Kurt thought it might tip over on its side, before it settled back down on four wheels.

Panting for a moment, he sat there, trying to calm his racing heart, before slowly opening his door to check on the curly haired boy he had barely avoided.

But there was no one there.

He searched the road, and the ditch that he'd almost tipped over into, but found no trace of the boy he swore he had seen standing in his headlights.

"Oh Gaga, Kurt, you are losing your mind now." He swore and rested his head on the hood of his car. "Seeing mysterious boys in the middle of the road. You've cracked! And you're talking to yourself. You've gone cuckoo."

"I don't know, I talk to myself all the time. Sometimes it's the only way to have an intelligent conversation."

Kurt screamed at the voice, turning to face the dark haired boy standing directly behind him. The boy was wearing tight blue jeans rolled up at the cuff, a white tshirt, and a black leather jacket. He reminded Kurt of the boys from Grease. He glanced around furtively, certain there hadn't been anyone there a moment ago.

"Wh-where did you come from?" His voice was even higher and squeakier than usual.

The boy smiled, and Kurt felt his knees go a little weak. "My family moved here from Westerville."

Kurt's heart was still racing from the near collision, and wasn't particularly in the mood for jokes. "I meant just now? And what the hell were you doing standing in the middle of the road! You could have been killed! And you almost made me crash my Baby!"

The boy, who was a couple inches shorter than Kurt, looked apologetic. "I'm sorry. My so called friends ditched me out here, and I was just walking home. I'm Blaine, by the way."

Kurt looked the boy over. He seemed harmless enough. "I'm Kurt. Where do you live? Would you like a ride?"

The other boy smiled again, and once more Kurt found his knees turning to jello. "That would be great, thanks! My home is just a half mile past the bridge."

Kurt frowned, not recalling seeing any houses out this way when he'd driven to the party. As they got into the car, he studied the other boy briefly in the overhead light. Dark brown curls that had been tamed with gel, perhaps just a little too much. Golden orbs with flecks of green that reminded him of fall leaves. A mouth that looked like it was made for sin. Kurt mentally shook himself and started the engine.

"Are you hurt?" Blaine asked him. "You look like you have blood all over you. I'm sorry."

Kurt shrugged. "I'm not hurt. Someone just thought it would be hilarious to reproduce the bucket scene from Carrie."

"Carrie? Bucket scene?" The other boy asked, obviously not getting the reference.

Kurt glanced over at the other boy. "You've never seen the movie?"

The other boy shook his head. "I've been kind of...sheltered for a long time."

That explained some of the boy's odd behavior. They reached the new bridge, and Blaine studied it curiously, and Kurt couldn't help but notice the look of relief on the boy's face when they reached the other side.

"Where exactly do you live?"

The other boy seemed to find the question humorous for some reason. "You can just drop me off at the old cemetery. My home is on the other side, near the old bridge."

Kurt shrugged, and pulled over near the graveyard that hadn't been used in more than fifty years. He shivered as he looked out over the headstones on his left. "It's pretty dark out, are you sure you'll be okay walking through there?"

He turned back to the passenger seat, but Blaine was gone. Kurt jumped out of the car, looking everywhere for the mysterious boy, but there was no sign that Blaine had ever been there.

He rushed over to the fence surrounding the old cemetery, straining to see if he could hear the boy moving through the headstones. There was no sound other than an owl swooping through the trees.

Was he going insane after all? Had it all been a hallucination? Maybe he should talk to Miss Pillsbury on Monday. The strain of the constant bullying was getting to him, obviously.

He turned back towards his car, but something caught his eye. In the light from his headlamps, he could just make out the quote on one of the headstones. It was from one of his favorite movies, West Side Story.

Today the minutes seem like hours, the hours go so slowly and still the sky is light.  
Oh moon, grow bright and make this endless day endless night.

He took a step closer, reading the words out loud. His gaze lowered to the name carved below, and he gasped.

Blaine Devon Anderson

Born 7-31-1943

Died 10-31-1959


	2. Truths and Lies

Kurt stumbled back to the Navigator, shaken by the events of the last half hour. Was this another cruel joke? Were the jocks going to jump out at him now and beat him up? He looked all around him as he opened the driver side door, but saw no one on this deserted stretch of road.

Starting the engine and locking the doors, he sat there for a moment. Was he actually going insane? Or had he really just encountered a ghost?

"Ghosts aren't real!" He said, slamming his hand down on the steering wheel. He drove home, his mind still racing with questions. Who was Blaine? Had he really committed suicide? Was this just some elaborate prank?

His dad looked up from the TV as he entered the house. "You're home earlier than I expected, Kiddo. You okay? You look like you've just seen a ghost!"

Kurt stopped dead in his tracks. "WHAT?"

"Relax, bud, it's just an expression. Are you okay? Is that blood in your hair and on your shirt?"

The pale boy took a deep breath. "Oh, I'm okay. Someone just spilled their drink on me. It was an accident. I'm pretty tired. I'm going down to my room to shower and go to bed. Night, Dad."

He went downstairs to his basement bedroom and showered, but couldn't relax. Instead he paced back and forth as the questions continued to bombard his mind. After several minutes, he snatched up his laptop and sat on the foot of the bed. After waiting for it to power up, he opened a google search, typing in Blaine Devon Anderson, 1959.

After wading through two pages of unrelated stories about people with the same name, he narrowed the search to Lima, Ohio. He skipped over a newer story about some singing group down by Columbus, and finally found what he was looking for. Sort of.

New Sheriff reopens investigation into death of Blaine Anderson, teen who went off Wickeridge Bridge in 1959.

Kurt read the article twice.

May 5th, 1969

Recently elected Sheriff Ray Abrams is reopening the case of deceased teen Blaine Anderson, which was originally ruled a suicide by law enforcement officials a decade ago.

Jack Anderson, the teen's older brother, has maintained that his brother would never have killed himself, and has been very vocal in his demand that authorities investigate further. The Anderson Family, which has since relocated back to Westerville, could not be reached for comment at this time.

Sheriff Abrams stated inconsistencies between evidence found at the scene and the previous investigators' reports.

The original reports stated that the youth had attempted to hang himself prior to the drowning, as evidenced by markings on the teen's neck consistent with rope burns. Photographs of the barn where the attempted hanging allegedly took place indicates the boy may not have been alone, and that some kind of struggle may have taken place. There were also markings on the body that indicated the boy may have been beaten shortly before his death.

Evidence on the vehicle Anderson was driving when it plunged off the bridge also implies that a second vehicle may have been involved. The sheriff at the time, William Karofsky, implied that there was no way to tell when those marking were made, and possibly had nothing to do with the teen's death.

Blaine Anderson died on Halloween night, 1959. If anyone has any information on the incident, they are encouraged to contact the Sheriff's department.(See also related story about missing teen...)

Kurt felt another shiver go down his spine as he studied the photograph of the young man that had accompanied the article. The hair was combed neater than it had been when the boy sat in Kurt's vehicle, and the black and white photograph made the golden eyes seem darker, but there was no doubt that it was the same boy Kurt had seen earlier that night.

…

Kurt tossed and turned all night, sleep eluding him for the longest time, and when he did finally fall asleep, nightmares plagued him.

In one dream, he was being beaten and buried alive. In another, he seemed to be hovering over the scene as another boy was kicked and taunted, a rope thrown over his neck. Kurt recognized the boy as Blaine.

He watched in horror as the three other boys tried to hang the smaller boy. They managed to hoist him several feet off the ground, but the beam broke, sending the three aggressors tumbling in to each other. Blaine landed on his feet and managed to run out of the barn as the other males tried to disentangle themselves from each other and the length of rope left behind.

The next thing Kurt knew he was racing along the old two lane road beside Blaine as the others pursued them. He saw Blaine wiping blood from his eyes, and was reminded of wiping the red slushie from his own face the night before.

He was jarred from that thought when something slammed into the back of the car. Blaine fought to keep the car on the road, even as the front tires gained purchase on the old wooden bridge. He saw the other car pull up on the left, saw the realization on Blaine's face when he knew he wouldn't survive. And then they were crashing through the side rail and plummeting into the water below.

He heard Blaine scream out just as they hit the water's surface. "I love you K...!" The sound was cut off when the curly haired boy's head slammed into the steering wheel.

Kurt woke with a jolt, tears streaming down his face.

…

Saturday was grey and foggy, and the air was chilly as Kurt walked along the stretch of road he'd driven the night before. He had found the exact spot where he had gone off the pavement, and had parked across the street from it. Now he searched for any signs of the other boy. There were no footprints other than his own. Nothing to indicate another soul had been anywhere near this stretch of asphalt.

He had kept walking, following the ruts where the old road used to be until he reached the banks of the river, and the remains of the old Wickeridge Bridge. Flashes from his nightmares kept replaying in his mind. Had Blaine been murdered? The news article and his dreams seemed to indicate that to be the case.

He had tried to find more information, to see if anything had ever become of the new investigation, but a fire at the newspaper had destroyed several older news files back in the mid 70's, so there was a large gap in the news stories from the local area back then. He'd even checked the Akron and Columbus newspapers, but other than a short blurb in the Akron paper that basically just asked for witnesses to come forward, there was nothing else to be found.

He had found more information on Jack Anderson, Blaine's older brother. He had served two terms as Westerville's Mayor, and had even run for state senate, but lost. He had apparently passed away recently, still convinced that his younger brother had been murdered. His parents had passed away in the late 70's and early 80's. He was survived by his only son, and two grandsons.

Kurt stood staring out at the rushing water below, going through the news story in his mind once more. One name had jumped out at him as he read it the first time, of course. William Karofsky. He wondered if they were related to Dave Karofsky.

Another name from the story kept nagging at the back of his mind. Abrams. Could they be related to Artie?

He walked back to his vehicle and drove back in to town. He knocked on his friend's door and waited for it to be opened.

"Hi, Mrs. Abrams. Is Artie home?"

"Hello, Kurt. Nice to see you! He's in his room."

The younger boy was fiddling with an editing program when Kurt entered.

"Kurt! What's up, bro?" They shook hands, and Kurt sat on the end of the other boy's bed.

"I've got a question for you. I was reading a local newspaper article from the late 1960's, and it mentioned a sheriff named Ray Abrams. Was he related to you?"

The wheelchair bound boy smiled. "Yeah, that's my great grandfather. He's pretty cool. He's always telling me stories about when he was in law enforcement."

"Nice. Does he still live around here? I'd like to talk to him about somethings. For a school project."

Artie studied the pale boy for a moment, as if he knew the boy was lying, but didn't call him on it. "Yeah, he lives over at the retirement home near the park. Want me to call and let him know you are coming?"

…

Ray Abrams looked much like his great grandson, right down to the glasses and bowl cut, but where the boy had light brown hair, Ray's had long ago gone white. The older man had studied Kurt with an air of intrigue and speculation. Before Kurt could even ask his first question, the old man spoke.

"I'm guessing you are going to ask me about the Anderson case."

Kurt looked at him in shock. "How did you know that?"

The elderly man just waved that off for the moment. Kurt could see that despite his advanced age, the man's mind was as sound as ever. "You want to know if the boy killed himself, or was murdered. Well, let me tell you, there was more than enough evidence to convict someone, but the three main suspects all had ironclad alibis."

"Can you tell me what you know about the case?" Kurt asked, needing to know the truth. The old man hesitated, and then went to his closet and pulled out an old file box.

"Here. I think you'll find the answers to all of your questions in here. Perhaps you'll have more luck with it than I ever did."

Kurt took the box. He didn't know why, but he felt certain that if he didn't solve this mystery, he'd regret it for the rest of his life. The older man looked him over again, and then spoke once more. "You know, there have only ever been two unsolved mysteries in Lima in the past hundred years. The death of Blaine Anderson, and the disappearance of another boy around the same time."

"Disappearance?" Kurt asked, curious.

The old man nodded. "It was strange, as both Anderson and the missing boy were the same age, and both went to what used to be known as Lima High school, though they renamed it McKinley not long after Anderson's death."

"What was the missing boy's name?"

"Well, Kurt Hummel, as coincidence would have it, his name was Kurt. Kurt McGuire. There is a picture of him in that box, too. I'll tell you, it was a bit of a shock when you walked in and introduced yourself."

Kurt found the file labeled KURT McGUIRE and pulled it out. The file almost fell from his fingers when he opened it and stared at the picture.

"Yeah," Ray said, seeing the blood drain from the boy's face. "For a brief moment I thought you were a ghost come to visit."

…

Later that afternoon, Kurt sat in his basement bedroom, staring at the photograph. It could have been a mirror that Kurt was looking at, the boy looked so much like him. They could have been twins. The only difference he could find was that the boy in the picture had styled his hair differently, more of an Eddy Haskell wave than Kurt's Hollywood blowout. Once he finally got around to reading the file, he was surprised at the lack of information.

Kurt Daniel McGuire, born May 16th, 1943, only child of Ken and Cassidy McGuire. Attended Lima High school, member of the musical drama club and school choir. Suspected homosexual. Last seen the morning of October 31st, 1959, leaving the Five&dime where he worked part time. His bicycle had been found abandoned in the woods near Wickeridge Bridge. Considered a runaway.

Kurt felt a chill crawl along his spine. He began going through the box item by item. There was very little about the disappearance of Kurt McGuire other than a photograph of his bicycle leaning against a tree near the old cemetery. There were also photographs of the old barn where the alleged hanging had taken place, as well as of the damaged guardrail of the old wooden bridge and a water logged 1936 Ford Roadster.

The picture was black and white, so why was Kurt certain the vehicle was candy apple red?

Kurt studied the pictures of the damage that was done to the car closely. It was glaringly obvious that the vehicle had been side swiped, and there were also dents on the back fender that looked like someone had bumped it at high speed.

Why had the old sheriff ignored the obvious evidence?

Kurt continued to look through the box, and found a file titled Suspects. He opened it and began to read.

Lewis Micheal Greyson, age 17, member of the Lima High School football team. The rope used in the attempted hanging was only available at Greyson's Hardware store, owned by Lewis' father. The elder Greyson testified under oath that his son was with him at the store the night of Anderson's death, doing inventory.

Richard James Nelson, age 17, member of the Lima High School football team. Anderson was last seen speaking with Nelson's girlfriend, Stacey Martin, the afternoon of his death. Nelson testified under oath that he was in Akron at the time of Anderson's death, and had gas receipts to prove it.

As Kurt read the name of the third suspect, he felt ice fill his veins.

Christopher David Karofsky, age 18, quarterback of Lima High School's football team. Paint matching that of Karofsky's Packard found in the scratches on Anderson's car. Karofsky claimed that they had scraped each other's vehicles in the school parking lot the day of Anderson's death. Karofsky's father, Sheriff William Karofsky, testified under oath that the teen had been with him at the Sheriff's office at the time of Anderson's death.

Kurt frowned. The sheriff who had proclaimed Blaine's death a suicide was not only the father of one of the suspects, but also his alibi? Didn't that just sound fishy?

Kurt set the file back in the box, needing a break. He went upstairs to see about dinner. He had just decided on chicken salad when Burt entered. "Hey, Kiddo. Haven't seen much of you today. Whatcha been up to?"

Kurt hesitated, and then shrugged. "Just doing some research."

"Oh? School project?" His dad asked, grabbing a bottle of water.

"Something like that. Hey, you grew up around here, didn't you? Wasn't your dad from here too?"

"Yeah. His dad settled here after WWII."

"Did he go to Lima High School in the fifties?"

"Yup. Graduated class of 1958. Why?"

Kurt thought quickly. "I'm doing a paper for history class about local history, and I came across this story about a boy who died in 1959. Blaine Anderson."

Burt nodded. "Yeah, tragic story. My dad talked about it when the former sheriff was brought up on charges of tampering with evidence in another case. Dad speculated there was probably more to the story, and thought it was strange that old man Karofsky seemed in such a hurry to proclaim that boy's death a suicide."

Kurt nodded. "Did grandpa know the boy?"

Burt shook his head. "I doubt it. From what I gathered back then, Anderson had just transferred here from Westerville shortly after the Christmas break in 1959, after my Dad graduated. Why?"

Kurt shrugged. "I just wondered if he had any idea of a motive, either for suicide or whatever."

Burt sighed. "There were rumors, of course, but no one knew for sure."

"Rumors?" Kurt asked, trying not to sound too anxious for the response.

"Yeah, there was some speculation that he might have been gay."

…

Kurt woke up early on Halloween morning, excitement thrumming through him. He had nearly reached his goal, nine months earlier than planned! He had been saving every penny he had earned in wages and tips at the Five&dime for when he graduated from high school and could move away from this two bit town. He had figured how much he would need to move to New York and to live off of for three or four months while he looked for a job and started auditioning for plays, with some left over for emergencies.

After he picked up his pay today, he'd only be twenty dollars short of his goal. He dressed quickly, and fixed his hair. After a fast breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, he kissed his mom on the cheek, and hugged his dad, before grabbing his bike and peddling into town.

His heart did a funny little flip when he saw the cute, dark haired boy drive by in his candy apple red Roadster. He'd been half in love with Blaine Anderson since the boy had moved here the previous semester. Of course, as far as he knew, the other boy wasn't gay, but at least he had been polite on the few occasions they'd been paired together on projects at school, and was one of the few boys who hadn't tormented him about his voice, or the fact that he was gay.

He arrived at the diner to collect his pay from Mrs. Puckerman, the kindly old Jewish lady who owned the place. "Kurt, dear boy! How are you? Goodness, you are so thin! Come on, let me fix you some breakfast!"

"Thanks, Mrs. P. But I've already eaten. I just came to get my pay, please."

The old lady frowned. "Not even a bagel?"

Kurt rolled his eyes, but smiled indulgently. "Fine, a bagel and cream cheese to go."

The woman got him his breakfast, counted out his pay, and then kissed his cheek. "You know you are my best worker. Everyone else is lazy. Even my grandson. But not you. You come in, you start working right away, and you don't stop until I have to force you to go home!"

Kurt smiled and hugged her. "Thanks, Mrs. P. You're a great boss. I'll see you this afternoon for my shift."

He slipped back on his bike, and began to peddle up Main Street. It was early Saturday morning, and very few people were out and about yet. He was just passing the alleyway between the Rexall Drugs and the Bank when a black Packard hit him from the right.

He wasn't seriously hurt, but he was stunned by the impact, and at first didn't understand what was happening when strong hands grabbed him up and threw him into the backseat.

He was disoriented as the car began to move again, and he tried to sit up, but rough hands shoved him back down.

"Stop moving around, faggot!" Kurt froze when he heard the familiar voice of Chris Karofsky.

…

Kurt woke up in a cold sweat, fear clawing at him.


	3. Mysteries and Histories

The clock on the bedside table said it was almost five AM on Halloween morning, but Kurt Hummel had already been on his laptop for more than an hour. There was no way he would be able to sleep until he figured out what happened to Blaine Anderson and Kurt McGuire.

The first thing he had done was gone to a genealogy website to try and trace the familiar names. William Karofsky was apparently the cousin of Alexander Karofsky, who was the father of Paul Karofsky, who in turn was the father of one David Alexander Karofsky.

William had apparently been quite corrupt, and had spent twenty years in prison for misconduct, tampering with evidence, and intimidating witnesses. He had died five days after his release from a heart attack. His son, Christopher, also spent some time in prison for assault with a deadly weapon and drunk driving. He'd died in a bar fight in Alabama in 1990.

Richard Nelson had a grand nephew named Rick Nelson, who played hockey at William McKinley. Richard had moved to Chicago after high school, and had a brief stint in the major leagues, playing center field for the White Sox for six games before a collision at the plate destroyed his knee and ended his career. He'd then spent several years selling used cars, until he had been arrested for tax evasion. The sixty eight year old was still serving time at a minimum security prison in upstate New York.

The third boy, Lewis Greyson, had died in Vietnam, leaving behind no offspring.

That information was all well and good, but didn't shed any light on the mystery of Blaine Anderson's death, or the disappearance of Kurt McGuire.

Sighing in frustration, Kurt shoved his hair back off his face, trying to figure out what to do next. Searching newspaper articles about the case hadn't gotten him anywhere. What about court documents? Would those be online? He googled Blaine Anderson Court Documents.

Ah ha! There were several pages of legal jargon that made very little sense to Kurt, but what it boiled down to was that the prosecutor refused to file charges despite all of the evidence, and despite the fact that the former sheriff had been found guilty of tampering with evidence in other cases. The prosecutor's reasoning had been that while the evidence against the three boys was staggering, all three of them had reputable alibis.

Kurt snorted. Reputable alibis? A corrupt sheriff was reputable? He reached into the box and pulled out the suspect list again. Richard Nelson didn't even have someone to collaborate his alibi, just a gas receipt. Who's to say that he was the one who drove to Akron and filled up the gas tank? Had anyone even gone to the gas station and spoken to the clerk on duty?

Another name stood out to Kurt. Richard's girlfriend, Stacey Martin. He looked back at the laptop screen. The prosecutor's name was George Martin. He went back to the genealogy site and looked up the two names. The prosecutor was the father of the girlfriend of one of the suspects. This just screamed of injustice to Kurt.

Kurt searched for any information he could find on the woman, and was surprised to find that she had never married, still lived in Lima, and worked at the Lima Library. How cliché, the spinster librarian. He glanced at his clock. Still not even six yet. The Library wouldn't be open on Sunday, so Ms. Martin would more than likely be home, but it was much too early to go knock on her door.

He decided to change directions for a little while, and googled Kurt McGuire. There was a short newspaper article from that week's Lima Herald, that basically just stated that the boy had gone missing, and was believed to be a runaway, despite his family's adamant claims that the boy wouldn't have left without telling them. There was a brief description, and a number to call if anyone saw him.

He tried the genealogy site to see if he could learn more about the boy's family, but there was no birth record for any one named Kurt McGuire from Lima, Ohio, in the database. Nor could he find a birth certificate for anyone by that name in any state from May 16th, 1943. He heard his dad moving around upstairs, and setting the laptop aside, made his way to the kitchen.

"Morning, kiddo. How'd you sleep?" Burt asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Kurt didn't reply, just shrugged as he got his own cup of coffee. "Hey, Dad? You remember that newspaper article I asked you about yesterday?"

"About the Anderson kid?"

"Yeah. I was doing some more research on it, and apparently another boy went missing the same day the other boy died. I was wondering if your dad ever talked about the missing kid?"

Burt frowned, shaking his head. "Not that I recall. Course, he may have mentioned it and I just never paid attention. Why are you so interested in this?"

Kurt didn't really want to go into details of what had happened the night before last, so just shrugged it off. "I told you I was doing research for a History paper. I found the article on the Anderson kid, and it mentioned the missing boy, and, well, the missing boy also happened to be named Kurt."

"Is that so? What a coincidence."

Kurt nodded. "Yeah, Kurt McGuire. It's kind of strange, because he was also born in May, he was also in his school's choir, and he apparently was gay, too." And he could have been my twin. He couldn't say that to his dad, though.

Burt was frowning now. "And you said his last name was McGuire? Huh."

"Does that name ring a bell?"

Burt shook his head again. "I had a customer last week named McGuire. He was passing through on his way to Philadelphia when his radiator overheated. Said he was on his way to a family reunion, and that he used to have family in this area, but they'd all moved on."

"Do you remember his first name?" Kurt asked, trying to hide the fact that his heart was racing.

Burt scratched his bald head, thinking for a moment. "Brian? Brandon? Something like that. I know it started with a B. Why, you think they are related?"

Kurt couldn't tell his dad that he was almost positive they were, because he didn't understand how he knew it himself. "It's possible," he hedged.

He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was after seven now. Still too early to look up the librarian, but he knew Santana would be up and about now. He wanted to talk to her grandmother about Blaine, and see if she knew anything about the other Kurt.

He fixed them a quick breakfast, showered and dressed, and sent a text to the Latina. Half an hour later they were sitting at a table at the Lima Bean.

"Okay, Lady Hummel, what's going on? Why the vague text and the sudden desire to meet my Abuela?"

Kurt knew the girl wouldn't let him get away with evasive answers, so cut right to it. "Promise me you won't breathe a word of what I am about to tell you to anyone, swear it on Brittany's airy head!"

"Geesh, Porcelain, this must be serious. Fine, I swear not to tell a soul. Now spill."

He spilled, telling her about his drive home Friday night, the mysterious boy, the cemetery, and everything he'd learned so far. He left out the part about the other Kurt being his doppelganger, though. She sat in silence, studying him for several minutes.

"So, you saw the ghost of this Blaine kid?"

"I don't know, maybe. He just appeared out of no where, and disappeared without a trace!"

"And you think the disappearance of this Kurt McGuire might be related?"

"I don't know! I just...I can't explain it. I just feel like I need to find out what happened to them both."

She was silent again, and then finished her coffee and stood. "Okay, let's go. My Abuela should be back from mass by now."

…

"Kurt McGuire? Yes, I remember him. You kind of look like him, actually, though his hair was darker, and his eyes greener." Alma Lopez said, studying him. "He and that Anderson boy were both older than I. Kurt was a Senior and Blaine a Junior when I was a Freshman."

"Do you know why Kurt would have run away?"

"Oh, well. We all knew he wanted to leave this town, to go to New York. He'd been saving up all his money for when he graduated. But I don't believe he ran away."

Kurt raised an eye brow in question. "Why not?"

"My father was the bank manager back then, and McGuire had an account there. He'd been saving every penny he had for the day he graduated and could leave. When he disappeared, Sheriff Karofsky declared him a runaway, saying he'd probably decided not to wait for graduation to get out of this town. But he didn't take the money from his account."

A flash from Kurt's dream came back. The Packard coming out of the alleyway between the drug store and the bank. "Why would the sheriff not investigate? Why just assume he was a runaway?"

Alma sighed. "It was no secret that McGuire was a homosexual. Back then people like that disappeared all the time, and most people just ignored it. They didn't want to ask questions. Some people even believed his parents sent him away to an asylum to try and cure him, but I don't believe that. I knew his parents, and they would never do that."

"What about Blaine Anderson? Do you know why his death would have been ruled a suicide?"

Again the older woman seemed uncomfortable. "There were rumors. Someone said that Anderson had a crush on McGuire, that some of the football players found out about it. They said the football players were going rough him up a little."

Kurt looked her in the eye. "Do you think Blaine Anderson was murdered?"

She hesitated a moment, and then nodded her head. "Yes, I think they killed him."

…

Kurt sat in his car outside the small apartment building. He had no idea what he was going to ask the older woman. "Hello, I was just wondering if your ex-boyfriend murdered a boy fifty some odd years ago, and if you know anything about the disappearance of another boy the same day?"

Yeah, he was sure she'd probably slam the door in his face. Sighing, he got out of the car and walked up to the door of apartment 21b, knocking lightly. After a moment, it opened. The woman was about the same height as Rachel, and actually kind of looked like the Jewish Diva, except the nose. Despite her age, the woman's hair was still gray-less.

When she saw him, her eyes widened in shock, and she gasped out.

"Uh, hello. I'm Kurt Hummel. I was wondering if I could talk to you about Blaine Anderson?"

The woman seemed to pull herself together, and frowned at him. "I don't know what you are talking about." She began to close the door.

"Wait! Please! I know you are Stacey Martin, I know you dated Richard Nelson at the time of Blaine Anderson's death, and I know you were the last person to see him alive. Please, Just talk to me."

For a long moment, Kurt thought she would refuse, but then she reluctantly invited him inside. "I don't know what you want me to say. I told the old sheriff everything I knew."

Kurt studied her for a moment. "Just tell me everything you remember about that day. I'm not a cop or anything, I just want to find out the truth."

Sighing, she motioned for him to take a seat. "There's not a lot to tell. I saw Blaine after football practice that Saturday afternoon. He was a nice kid, and we talked for a few minutes about an English assignment we both were working on. Then Richard and I left. That was the last time I saw him."

"Were you with Richard when he drove to Akron that evening?"

Kurt noticed her eyes shifted away when she answered. "No, I was at home, reading a book for the English assignment."

Kurt knew she was lying. He changed tactics. "What about Kurt McGuire? Did you know him too?"

"Everyone knew Kurt McGuire," she smiled. "Most of the girls were either in love with his eyes, or his voice, or jealous of his eyelashes. Such a shame he preferred boys."

"Do you know why he would have disappeared?"

She shrugged. "Guys like him weren't well accepted around here. He had dreams of moving to New York, where he'd fit in a little better. He'd been saving up for it for three years. I figured he decided not to wait until graduation."

Kurt nodded. "Which is why it is suspicious that he didn't take the money with him."

She looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"My friend Santana's grandmother was the daughter of the bank manager. I talked to her earlier today, and she said that McGuire didn't take any money with him. She doesn't believe he ran away."

"But Rich said..." She cut herself off.

"Rich said what?" Kurt pushed.

"He said that he'd seen Kurt leaving town that day, on a bus."

"He never told that to the sheriff, or McGuire's parents."

"But why would he say that to me if it wasn't true?"

After a few more questions, Kurt left Stacey Martin's apartment. He was positive of three things; Stacey had no idea what had happened to Kurt McGuire, but she knew more than she was telling about Blaine Anderson's death. And she had lied about being home the night of the murder.

He thought about where to look next, but his options were limited. McGuire was last seen leaving the Five&dime where he worked, but according to town records, that place had burned down in 1976. Breadstix now stood where the old dinner used to be. Kurt drove to the restaurant and parked across the street.

In his dream, McGuire had left the diner on his bike, and peddled towards the bank. He got out and began walking the route the other Kurt would have taken. The Rexall Drug was now a CVS, and the old bank had been torn down years ago and turned into a parking lot for the office building across the street. He paused in what used to be a blind alley between the two buildings. As he stood in the alleyway, looking down at the cracked pavement, he saw clear as day, the Packard rushing towards him.

He could only call what he experienced next a vision from the past. He saw the two boys pick him up and throw him into the backseat, saw the third boy peddle the bike out of town. And then he was in a clearing in the woods near the old bridge. The three boys were taunting him, beating him. Fear rushed through him when he saw the grave.

He blinked and was back in the alleyway, and staggered a little as his vision cleared.

What the hell was happening to him?

…

He returned home shortly after noon, tired, confused, and feeling sick to his stomach. He knew Blaine Anderson had been murdered, and he was beginning to believe Kurt McGuire had also. But how could he prove it? And why did it matter to him anyway? Fifty one years had passed to the day. Why was he so desperate to solve the mystery?

He stumbled down to his room, thankful that his dad was working at the garage today. He opened his laptop once more, and began searching the genealogy websites for references of a Brian or Brandon McGuire. After what seemed like endless dead ends, he found it. Ken McGuire married Cassidy Phillips in February, 1941 in Akron, Ohio. But there were no birth certificates for a Kurt Daniel McGuire.

It took another hour of digging before he found the adoption records. Apparently Kurt was not their biological child. The adoption records were sealed, so he had no idea who McGuire's birth parents were. It seemed to be yet another dead end, and the frustration was starting to get to him.

He paced the floor in agitation, feeling so helpless. He felt like he was suffocating. He grabbed his keys and left the house, driving on instinct, he found himself parked next to the cemetery as the sun began to set. He made his way to Blaine Anderson's grave, unable to look away.

"Why are you doing this to me? What do you want from me?" He sobbed. Without thinking, he walked past the gravestone, and across the graveyard to where the mysterious boy said he had lived. At the far edge of a field that adjoined the burial ground was a small ranch style home that looked like no one had lived there in years. The windows were busted, and weeds grew up all around the weathered boards. An old mailbox was still attached to a post that lay on its side, the name Anderson etched on the side. Kurt searched for any signs of inhabitation, but found none. He was about to walk back to his car when a sound from behind him made him turn towards the old, rarely used road.

A black Packard was driving slowly down the road. He could see the driver clearly, and felt a frisson go down his spine. He had no doubt that the boy behind the wheel was not David Karofsky, but an apparition of a young Chris Karofsky.


	4. The Truth Uncovered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning, this chapter contains descriptions of mildly graphic violence.

Kurt raced down the road as the sky turned dark, following the car that he was certain was driven by a teenager who was not only no longer a teen, but who had been dead for twenty years.

He saw the car pull off near the old bridge, and the two teens pulled McGuire out of the backseat, dragging him into the woods. As Kurt approached the spot, the third teen arrived on the bicycle McGuire had been riding earlier. He ditched it near the cemetery fence, and ran to the clearing. Kurt new the sun had set, but in his vision, it was still morning.

Kurt followed, his stomach churning as he heard the sounds coming from the clearing. None of the four boys in the clearing even noticed him watching as the three football players beat the pale boy, who was sobbing and pleading. He heard the boys taunting him, the foul names they called him. He heard the sound of bones breaking as Karofsky stomped on his hand. He nearly vomited when Nelson kicked the boy in the face, smashing his nose.

But what made the hair on the back of his neck stand up was when Karofsky leaned over and sneered in his face and spoke. "After we're done with you, we're going to take care of your boyfriend, Anderson. We're going to hang that little fag, and be rid of all you damn queers for good!"

Kurt watched in horror as they dragged the beaten boy a little further into the woods, and he saw the grave that had been dug earlier. After beating him some more, they dumped the barely conscious boy into the hole, and laughed as they began shoveling dirt over the battered body. Kurt wanted to scream that he was still alive, wanted to make them stop, but he knew that what he was witnessing had happened more than fifty years ago, and that he was powerless to stop it. Eventually the boy in the hole came around enough to realize what was happening, and he began screaming and trying to get up, but he was too seriously injured to save himself. The other boys just laughed louder at his screams, and began throwing the dirt in faster.

And then there was silence.

Kurt was too stunned to move, as the three apparitions caught their breaths.

"Come on," Karofsky said a moment later. "Let's get the barn ready for Anderson. You brought the rope?"

The smallest of the three boys, whom Kurt assumed was Lewis, nodded. He was the boy who had ridden McGuire's bike here. The three of them made their way back to the road, as Kurt just stood there, staring at the mound of dirt. The daylight faded as the vision ended, and darkness surrounded him once more. He knew it was much to late to save the boy, but his instinct was to drop to his knees and start digging. He fought it, and raced back to his car, and drove to the old barn. He had a feeling that what ever was happening to him wasn't over.

When he arrived at the barn, he thought perhaps he was wrong, that his visions were over with, but then he heard a noise behind him. Turning, he saw two cars pulling up at the barn. Karofsky and Lewis Greyson got out of one car, and Nelson and a girl, who Kurt recognized as Stacey Martin, emerged from the second.

"Richie," Stacey said, her voice soft. "I don't like this. Blaine is a nice kid. Why can't you just leave him alone?"

"We're just gonna rough him up a little, Stace. Teach him a little lesson, I promise."

The girl frowned. "What did Blaine ever do to you? Come on Richie, just because he smiled at that Kurt kid doesn't mean he's gay or anything. And you said McGuire left town today, anyway. Let's just go home."

The taller boy wrapped her in his arms. "You don't have to hang around," He told her. "As a matter of fact, why don't you take my car and drive to Akron and get yourself that dress you've been wanting? I'll even pay for it." He handed her his keys, and some money, just as a candy apple red roadster came into view.

Kurt didn't know if he could go through this again, but he found himself unable to look away as Stacey smiled at Blaine, and told him that she had to go pick up a few things for the party. Then the four boys headed into the barn as the girl drove away. He couldn't stop himself from following them. Blaine was completely unaware of his fate, talking and smiling at the other boys as they lead him to his doom.

The scene from his dream played out again, up to the point where the beam broke and the younger boy managed to escape the barn. Kurt followed the other boy in his own car, pulling off to the side of the road at the old bridge and getting out, watching the roadster being forced off the bridge, the car hitting the water hard, and sinking quickly. He saw the three boys climb out of the Packard and stand there impassively, watching it sink.

And then the phantom car and the three boys faded into nothing. Kurt thought his vision was over, until he noticed the glowing figure emerging from the woods on the far side of the bridge. The eerie form of Kurt McGuire stood there, looking across the remains of the bridge. At first he thought the ghost was looking at him, but then he noticed the glow beside him. Turning, he saw the profile of Blaine Anderson staring longingly at the apparition on the far side of the bridge. Neither of them seemed to notice him as he looked from one to the other.

Blaine lifted a hand towards the boy on the far side of the river, as if wanting to touch him, and Kurt realized that the two souls were trapped, each on their own side of the divide, separated by some barrier he couldn't see. His heart ached for them, but he didn't know how he could free them. He had driven Blaine's apparition over the new bridge, but apparently that wasn't enough. As the two ghostly figures faded from sight, Kurt slipped back into his Navigator, staring out at the remains of the old Wickeridge Bridge. He'd looked up the town records on the structure. After Anderson had gone off the bridge, it was declared structurally unsound, and was eventually torn down the following year, and the new bridge built shortly after.

Now all that was left of the old wooden structure was a few pieces of rotting wood jutting out over the rushing water below. Was that what separated the two souls? The bridge had still been pretty much intact that night fifty one years ago. Why hadn't Blaine's ghost been able to cross it then? Was there something else keeping them apart? Kurt didn't know, but he did know he needed to tell someone about what happened to McGuire.

He drove back to town slowly, considering his options. He couldn't just call the police and say he knew where the boy had been buried without any proof. He didn't want to go back to that spot alone and try and find any evidence. He needed someone he could trust. He pulled into his driveway and made two quick calls.

As he slipped into his house, he could hear voices from the kitchen. He made his way there, and was surprised to see his dad and Carole dancing slowly to soft music.

"Kurt!" His dad said, seeing him standing there. The older man's cheeks flushed in embarrassment at getting caught. Carole was also blushing. Kurt only smiled at them, happy to see his dad happy. "I-uh, I was wondering where you were. Are you okay, kiddo? You look even paler than usual. You're not getting sick, are you?"

Kurt knew he should tell his dad everything, but couldn't find the words. "I'm fine, Dad. I've just been busy, that's all. I'm just gonna change my clothes and grab a couple things out of the garage, then I'm heading back out."

"Out? Where? It's getting late, Kurt. Have you even eaten dinner yet?"

Kurt realized he hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast, but the thought of food right now made his stomach churn. "I'm not hungry. I just need to go help a friend out. I promise, dad, I won't be gone too late."

Burt studied him for a moment, concern etched into every line of his face. "Are you sure you're okay, bud?"

Kurt swallowed, fighting back tears and forcing a smile. "I'm fine, I swear. My friend really needs my help, though. Love you!"

He hugged the older man, and then ran downstairs to his room. He quickly changed into something he wouldn't mind getting ruined, and then headed to the garage. He grabbed up a couple of shovels and an emergency lantern with a powerful light. As he got back into the Navigator, he noticed it was just after 9pm.

He swung past the retirement home, where Ray was waiting outside. "I had to sneak out the back door," the former sheriff said with a grin. Kurt just nodded as they drove away. His next stop was the Lopez home.

Santana was scowling at him as she slid into the backseat. "This had better be good, Lady Lips. Brittany and I were supposed to meet up tonight."

"I know what happened to Kurt McGuire." He said, and felt two sets of eyes locked on his face. As he drove, he told them what he had seen. He felt a a shiver go down his spine as they passed the old Anderson house.

"So, why do you think these ghosts are appearing to you, and no one else?" Santana asked, for once not sounding snarky or sarcastic. "Are you some kind of medium or something?"

Kurt sighed. He didn't want to reveal this part to the Latina. "I don't know. All I can say is I feel compelled to help them. I need to bring them justice, so they can find peace."

The older man looked at him, knowing the boy hadn't told his friend about his connection to McGuire, but keeping his mouth shut for the moment as they pulled off near the old bridge. Kurt cut the engine and they got out, Kurt grabbing the shovels, while Ray carried the lantern.

Kurt led them into the woods, moving by instinct to the spot where he knew the boy had been buried. Fifty one years later, there was no evidence of the grave that had been dug there, or of the violence that had taken place.

For a moment, no one moved. Kurt just stared at the spot where the boy who looked so like him had spent his last, terrified minutes. As if sensing the pale boy's distress, Santana stepped forward, placing one hand on his shoulder as she took one of the shovels in her other hand. She moved past him, and began to dig, as Ray held the Lantern up to illuminate the area. After a moment, Kurt shook himself out of his thoughts, and joined the girl in digging.

It took less time than he would have thought before the dark haired girl uncovered the evidence they were searching for. A strip of fabric, tattered, torn, and stained. Both Kurt and Ray recognized it from the description Ken McGuire had given of what his son had been wearing the morning he had disappeared. It was from Kurt McGuire's shirt.

"Do we keep digging?" Santana asked.

Kurt didn't hear her. His mind was lost once again in replaying the horrifying seen of the other boy's death. The boy had died simply because of his sexuality. How could people be so cruel? And more importantly, how could so many people just look away? It hadn't just been Sheriff Karofsky ignoring the evidence, or the prosecutor refusing to do his job. It had been Stacey Martin lying for her boyfriend, and everyone who suspected the truth and did nothing about it. Even now, people like him were bullied and tormented, and pushed to the brink of suicide, while others turned their backs and refused to acknowledge it.

Anger sparked within him. "It's not fair!" He shouted. "It's not fair! All he ever wanted was to love and be loved for who he was. He never hurt anyone! He was good, and kind, and just wanted to be happy! He was a good worker, a talented singer! He had a future in musical theater! They didn't have to kill him! He would have left town in a few months anyway! Why? Why couldn't they just leave him be? Leave them both alone? It's not fair!"

He collapsed at the foot of the unmarked grave of the murdered boy, and the tears he had been fighting all day finally broke through.

Santana, usually so stoic, knelt beside him, putting her arm around him. "Shh! You found him. The truth is uncovered. He can rest now."

Kurt clung to her for a moment as her words settled in. Could he rest now? Could they rest?

Suddenly Kurt was up and running again, towards the remains of the old wooden bridge. He could hear the others calling him, but he didn't stop until he reached the river. In desperation, he searched both banks for either boy, but didn't see anything. He slumped in disappointment. He had hoped to see the boys reunited.

He was turning back towards the road when his watch chimed midnight, and an eerie glow emerged from the woods. Kurt froze, watching the figure of a boy form out of the light. The apparition walked slowly past him, and he could see the smile on the ghostly face. Turning slowly back to the river, he saw another figure on the far side. Each boy stopped at the edge of the river. Kurt felt anther pang of disappointment that they were still separated, but as he watched, the glow between the two spread, and the foggy form of a bridge built between them. They began walking towards each other, meeting in the middle, where they paused, just staring at each other.

Kurt could hear Santana calling his name, but he couldn't look away as the two boys reached out and hugged each other. They turned, and waved to him, smiling. Kurt gasped as a light formed above them and began to descend. The vague outline of a woman formed. He couldn't see her face, but there was something very familiar about her. She settled behind the two boys, and the figure of McGuire turned to her, smiling, and hugged her. Then, with one last wave to Kurt, the two boys began to glow brighter, and then faded out. And then the woman turned and looked directly at Kurt, and he cried out in shock.

"Mom?" The world faded out around him as he passed out.


	5. Justice at Last

Kurt lay in his bed, unmoving, just listening to the whispers around him. He could hear Ray Abram's raspy voice talking to his father, heard Santana speaking on her phone, though he wasn't certain to whom. He knew he should let them know he was awake, that he was fine, but he was just too exhausted and emotionally drained to do anything.

"The police are going to check out the clearing as soon as it's light enough out." Santana said in a low voice to the others, as she hung up the phone. The whispers continued for a while, but he tuned them out. He kept replaying the scene on the bridge over and over. There was definitely a familial resemblance between Kurt McGuire and the female apparition that Kurt had thought was his mother.

Were they related somehow? His heart sank, knowing that he would probably never find out. But why else would the apparitions appear to him?

The events of the last couple of days were catching up with him, and he was too exhausted to fight it anymore, closing his eyes again as sleep dragged him under.

…

Monday morning, Kurt once more found himself passing the old Anderson home, though now there was no shiver of awareness. His father sat beside him in the driver's seat, and a police car followed them.

He had given the police a statement, telling them that he'd gotten interested in the case of the missing boy after reading a newspaper article about it, and had asked the former sheriff about it. Ray Abrams had collaborated his story, as had Alma Lopez when he mentioned her telling him that McGuire had never taken his money from the bank.

He told them that when he learned that the boy's bike had been found in the area, he had begun searching, and had found the piece of McGuire's shirt. He didn't tell them about Santana or Ray being there.

The two vehicles parked along the unused road, and Kurt lead them into the woods, showing the police officers the grave. The officer took one look inside the hole that Kurt and Santana had dug, and immediately radioed for a forensic unit. Kurt couldn't go near the spot again, but Burt wandered over and looked down. Kurt heard his father swear. Burt Hummel never swore.

The older man turned and walked back to his son, holding him tight. "I'm sorry, Kurt. I'm so sorry!" He whispered into the pale boy's hair.

…

The remains of Kurt Daniel McGuire were excavated carefully, the forensic team taking their time to gather as much evidence as they could. Reporters showed up part way through the investigation. Kurt Hummel sat numbly in his dad's truck, not sure what to feel.

By Monday evening, the story was on every front page and TV newscast. Stacey Martin came forward and told the police that her ex boyfriend might have been involved in McGuire's death, and that she was the one who had driven Nelson's car to Akron that night fifty one years ago. She confessed that she had tricked Blaine Anderson into going to the barn that night, not realizing what the three boys had planned. She stated that she believed they had only meant to rough the boy up, and that things had gotten out of hand.

The next few days seemed to pass in a blur. Richard Nelson, the only one of the three suspects still alive, had been questioned, and after being confronted with his ex girlfriend's statements, had finally broken down and confessed to the two murders.

Stacey's father, George Martin, who had long since retired from the DA's office, admitted that he had turned a blind eye to the evidence against the boys in an effort to protect his daughter from being charged as an accessory after the fact.

Ray Abrams told Kurt that he'd been writing a book about the two cases, but had never finished it. Now that the mysteries were solved, he planned to finish it and publish it.

Kurt hadn't gone to school Monday or Tuesday, and when he arrived before classes on Wednesday, he was still fairly numb. Santana had kept her promise not to tell anyone what had happened, but his name had been mentioned in a couple of the news stories, so he wasn't overly surprised by the stares and whispers as he walked down the halls between classes.

Even Mercedes and Tina were giving him strange looks as he settled into Glee Club that afternoon. Perhaps it was the photographs that had been published in the Lima Herald that morning. Somehow a reporter had gotten a hold of a picture of him, and published it next to the picture of Kurt McGuire, under the headline, 'Do you believe in reincarnation? Local teen who solved mystery of missing boy from the 50's is spitting image of the deceased youth.'

Once Glee practice was over, Kurt drove to his dad's shop, needing the distraction of working in the garage to feel normal for a while. He was still working on replacing a fuel pump in a '69 Chevy Charger when everyone else left for dinner. His dad had tried to get him to take a break, but Kurt just shrugged it off and asked his dad to bring him back a salad.

The silence in the garage was interrupted when a black Lincoln MKS pulled up and a gentleman in a suit stepped out, looking around. He seemed taken aback when he spotted Kurt.

"Can I help you?" The pale boy asked. The man seemed to shake off his surprise and stepped forward.

"Uh, yeah, I passed through here a couple of weeks ago, and an older fellow helped me out. Burt, I think his name was."

"That's my dad. He's at dinner now. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Well, actually I was going to ask him if he could help me find someone. You see, my name is Brian McGuire, and over fifty years ago, my cousin disappeared in this area, and I just found out that his remains had been discovered by a local teen. But I guess I don't have to ask him to help me find the teen after all."

Kurt felt dumbstruck for a moment. "You knew Kurt McGuire?"

The older man slid his hands into his pockets. "Well, kind of. I don't really remember him that much. I was five when he disappeared. His dad was my dad's brother. Uncle Ken and Aunt Cassidy didn't really handle his disappearance well. They both passed away a few years after Kurt disappeared."

Kurt studied him for a moment. "Did you know he was adopted?"

The older man seemed surprised. "I did, but it wasn't common knowledge. How did you find out about it?"

"It took some digging on the internet, but I found the adoption records. They were sealed, though. Do you have any idea who his biological parents were?"

McGuire studied him for a moment. Kurt sighed. "Please, I just need to know."

After another hesitation, the man nodded. "Cassidy Phillips had a cousin, Jennifer Mitchell, who was ten years younger than her. When Jennifer was 16, she got pregnant. Cassidy and Ken had been trying for a couple of years to have a child, but after three miscarriages, they gave up. The family hid Jennifer's pregnancy, and after she gave birth, Cassidy and Ken adopted the little boy."

"Thank you," Kurt said, now having a name to work with. He just knew that he and the other boy were connected somehow.

"No, thank you. That was why I was looking for you. My family is grateful to you for finding our missing family member, for bringing us peace of mind. We may never have known the truth if it weren't for you."

Kurt didn't know what to say to that, and just shook the other man's hand. The other man left then, and Kurt stood there watching him go, the name Jennifer Mitchell flitting through his mind.

As soon as his dad returned, Kurt excused himself, taking the salad and saying he was tired and going home. Once there, he left the salad sitting on the table and went downstairs to his bedroom, immediately booting up his laptop.

Going directly to the genealogy website, he typed in the name, and paused to do the math. If she had been 16 when she gave birth in 1943, then she had to have been born in 1928. He found the birth certificate easily enough. Goosebumps raised on his arms as he read the name. Jennifer Elizabeth Mitchell.

Elizabeth.

He then searched for marriage certificates. Jennifer had married Joseph Slater in 1948. The couple had one child, a daughter born in 1949, Kathleen Nicole Slater. She married Jack Michaels in 1970, and gave birth later that same year to Elizabeth Marie Michaels, who married Burt Hummel in 1992.

…

Kurt McGuire was laid to rest the following Saturday in the old cemetery, beside Blaine Anderson. The funeral was small, with only family members allowed. Kurt and Burt Hummel were among them. Before the casket was lowered into the ground, Kurt lay a single white rose on the mahogany lid. White, for the innocent boy who had his future stolen from him, who had been robbed of his chance at love.

Richard Nelson had plead guilty to two counts of first degree murder. George Martin had plead guilty to one count of obstruction of justice, and Stacey Martin had plead guilty to accessory after the fact. Both George and Stacey were given probation, while arrangements were being made for Richard to be transferred to a maximum security prison, where he would spend the rest of his life.

Things at school had been awkward for Kurt, with both Dave Karofsky and Rick "the Stick" Nelson blaming him for besmirching their families' reputations. The bullying from both parties was becoming almost unbearable, to the point where Kurt dreaded going to school each day.

As he and his dad drove home from the old cemetery, Kurt swore he saw a flash of candy apple red, and turned to stare out the window. A 1936 Ford Roadster had passed them, heading towards the cemetery, and Kurt thought he saw a head of curly hair behind the wheel, but the car disappeared around a curve in the road before he could be certain.


	6. Treat

It had been just over a week since the events that had changed Kurt Hummel's life that Halloween night. He still couldn't believe everything that had happened, and often wondered about the two boys. If they had lived, would they have admitted their feelings for each other? Would they have fallen in love, moved away together, and been happy?

He also thought about the woman he had seen on the bridge. Had it been his mother? Or had it been Jennifer Mitchell, who had died the same year he had been born? He had found a picture of his great grandmother online, and the resemblance to his mother was almost as uncanny as between him and the other Kurt. He just didn't know.

He was lost in thought that afternoon, not paying much attention to Glee practice, accept to move when Mr. Schue split them into two groups, boys versus girls. He was still thinking about the events of the past when Puckerman called him out.

"Yo, Hummel, if you aren't going to help, why don't you make yourself useful and go spy on the competition!"

He should have been upset, and had given the taller boy his best Bitch, please, look as he walked out, but in reality, he was relieved to be leaving McKinley, even for a little while. The bullying grew worse every day, especially from Karofsky, who seemed determined to break the pale boy.

When he arrived at Dalton, an unexpected sense of anticipation filled him, as if he knew something was about to happen, though he had no idea what. He walked slowly across the parking lot, eyes fixated on the prestigious prep school's facade that screamed wealth and privilege. Kurt felt out of place, knowing he'd never be able to afford a school like this. The tuition was probably more than his dad made in a year.

He slipped inside, feeling conspicuous, and was certain someone would call him out and make him leave. He was surprised when no one seemed to pay him any attention. He wandered around the building, still feeling that sense of anticipation at every turn. He was making his way down a beautiful circular staircase, not knowing where he was or where he was going when the silent halls suddenly filled with boys all rushing in the same direction.

He wondered what was happening, and plucked up his courage to ask someone. He called out to a dark haired boy that had just passed him.

"Excuse me..."

…

Saturday, November 6th, 2010

He was still in a state of shock, though the news had broken almost a week ago now. His grandfather had always been adamant in his beliefs about the death of the older man's younger brother, but he never thought that one day justice would be served.

Today he would visit his grandfather's grave, and place flowers there, and tell the old man that he was right, and that the truth had finally come out. And then he would go to the other cemetery and place flowers on his great uncle's grave, and tell him that he could rest now.

He often wondered about the boy he had been named after, what his life would have been like if he hadn't been murdered so young. He had seen photographs of the boy, and knew they had looked so much alike. He couldn't help noticing the similarities in their lives. They had both been born in late July. They had both loved West Side Story. They had both been short, athletic, and musically inclined. And apparently they had both been gay. When he had come out to his father, he knew the older man's reaction wasn't based on hate or ignorance. His father feared what could happen to his son, because he knew first hand how hate and ignorance could make people lash out.

He thought about the other boy, too. What had happened to him had been much worse than what had happened to his own ancestor. He hoped that boy's family could now find peace themselves.

He was still lost in thought later that afternoon as he drove down the road to the old cemetery, his candy apple red roadster kicking up dust. The car had once belonged to that other Blaine, and had been lovingly restored by his namesake. He slowed as he approached the curve in the road, and noticed a pickup driving towards him. He could make out two people in the front seat, an older man and a boy who appeared to be about the same age as him, both wearing black suits. The boy seemed vaguely familiar to him, but he wasn't sure why, and before he could get a better look, they had passed.

Shaking it off, he parked near the graveyard and walked to the headstone, surprised to find a fresh grave next to his great uncle's. The first Blaine Anderson had been the last person buried in this cemetery before the newer one opened closer to Lima. He lay the bouquet of white roses on the headstone, and smiled.

"It's over. The truth has been told. You can rest now."

…

He stood staring up at the pale boy on the stairs, and the sense of familiarity was nearly overwhelming. He knew this boy, somehow. And judging by the look in the beautiful boy's eyes, he felt it too. He had the oddest urge to start crying, and the other boy seemed on the verge of tears as well.

"I'm Blaine," he murmured.

"Kurt."

…

The two figures looked down from above at the boys standing on the stairwell, and smiled. While their lives had been cut short by hate and violence, they knew the other two would live long and happy lives filled with so much love, because this time they would have each other to pick them up and support them.

Finally at peace, the two souls faded out for the last time.


End file.
